Another crash from downstairs, this one definitely from the kitchen.
“If this is a burglar, you picked the wrong house,” I called out, trying to sound braver than I felt. “I have nothing worth stealing unless you’re really into vintage lamps and creepy dolls.”
No response. Just a sound like wind chimes, if wind chimes were made of glass and pain.
I made my way downstairs, each step creaking in a different key, creating a discordant melody that made my teeth ache. The air got thicker as I descended, like walking through invisible soup. It tasted purple—not smelled, tasted—and that’s when I knew I was either still dreaming or something was very, very wrong.
The kitchen was a disaster. Every cabinet door hung open, contents scattered across the counters and floor. The ancient refrigerator hummed in three-part harmony with itself, and the sink was running, water overflowing onto the floor in patterns that defied physics—spiraling up before falling down, creating impossible geometries in the air.
But that wasn’t the weirdest part.
The weirdest part was the beetle.
It sat on the kitchen table, was about the size of my thumb, and was definitely looking at me. Not in the way insects sometimes seem to look at you, but actually looking. With intent. With intelligence. With what I could only describe as impatience.
Its shell gleamed iridescent in the flashlight beam, colors rippling across its surface in impossible ways—purple so vivid it seemed to make a sound, bronze that gave me vertigo just looking at it. When it moved, it left tiny trails of light that faded slowly, like bioluminescent breadcrumbs.
“Finally,” it said, and I dropped the flashlight.
The kitchen plunged into darkness, but not completely. The beetle glowed softly, casting shadows that moved independently of the light it produced.
“Did you just—” I started.
“Talk? Yes. Pick up the light, would you? This is difficult enough without you having hysterics in the dark.”
I fumbled for the flashlight, fingers shaking. “Beetles don’t talk.”
“This one does.” It cleaned its antennae with its front legs, a gesture that somehow managed to convey annoyance. “I’m Peeble, by the way. And before you ask—no, I’m not a hallucination. No, you’re not dreaming. And no, this isn’t a brain tumor, though that was a creative theory.”
“Peeble?” I stared at the beetle. “And what the hell kind of name is Peeble? What does that even stand for? ‘Probably evil beetle?’”
“It’s a perfectly respectable name, thank you very much. And I hear everything you say near the tree. Have for years. Your grandmother and I had lovely conversations. She was much quicker on the uptake.”
“Jo knew about you?”
“Knew about me? Child, she fed me sugar water every Tuesday and told me about her week. Lovely woman. Terrible at keeping plants alive, ironically, but lovely nonetheless.”
I sank into a kitchen chair, the wood creaking ominously. “I need a Dr Pepper.”
“Bottom shelf of the fridge, behind the pickles. Jo kept them there specifically for you.”
I looked at the beetle—Peeble—then at the overflowing sink with its impossible water patterns, then back at the beetle. “How do you know that?”
“I told you, I hear everything near the tree. Also, I have compound eyes. Do you have any idea how much compound eyes can see? It’s frankly overwhelming.”
I got up and checked the fridge. Sure enough, behind an ancient jar of pickles that probably qualified as a bioweapon, sat a six-pack of Dr Pepper in glass bottles—the fancy kind Jo always splurged on for my visits.
“She knew I’d come here,” I said, pulling one out. The cap popped off with a satisfying hiss. “She knew I’d inherit the house.”
“She knew a lot of things,” Peeble said, and for the first time, the sarcasm faded from its—their?—voice. “More than she ever told you. More than she could tell you, bound as she was.”
“Bound by what?”
Before Peeble could answer, the not-thunder came again, so strong this time that the Dr Pepper in my hand rippled in patterns that reminded me of the water in the sink. The house didn’t just shake—it groaned, like something enormous was pressing against it from all sides.
“Oh, bollocks,” Peeble muttered. “It’s starting already. I told her three weeks wasn’t enough time. I told her you’d need preparation. But did she listen? ‘The garden knows its own timing, Peeble.’ Well, the garden’s timing is shit, Jo!”
“What’s starting?” I stood up, Dr Pepper forgotten. “What’s happening to the house?”
